BY SALLY SHEKLOW
Oral Sex
Under the influence of latex.
T
here I was, reclined in the endodontist’s chair,
my mouth crammed with wads of cotton the
size of heavy-day tampons. A siphon suc-
tioned my involuntary flow of saliva. An efficient
woman in a flowered smock prepped me. The very
thought of a root canal made me so nervous I would
gladly have eaten the blue applesauce that catapult-
ed the Comet Hale-Bopp followers to a better place.
But it was too late for that. I had to rely on the deep-
breathing technique, which luckily combines well with
nitrous oxide. Focused on my third eye point, I slowed my breath, the gas
kicked in, and I eased my death grip on the plastic-covered armrests.
The soles of the endodontist’s Hush Puppies squished softly on the pol-
ished exam room floor. He made some small talk, to which I could not reply
because my mouth was full of sanitary products. Over the buzz and slurp of
the suction machine came a particular unmistakable sound. Snap, rustle rus-
tle, snap followed by the faint smell of talc. He was putting on latex gloves.
To my subconscious brain, latex means sex. During these last 15 or so
years droves of us dykes joined our gay brothers in learning safer sex prac-
tices, and I developed an automatic latex-erotica connection. I remembered
my first encounter with that sleek little sheet of latex known affectionately as
the dental dam. Reflexes took over and my crotch dampened.
“Anything can be eroticized.” The workshop leader’s words flooded back to
me. About a dozen of us HIV prevention recruits had gathered at Liz and
Carolyn’s house for our first safe sex workshop. We crowded into the cozy liv-
ing room. The lights were low and soft jazz played in the background. Liz
served hibiscus tea and Carolyn set out a plate of mint Milanos.
The invited presenter, a certified “sexpert” from San Francisco, spoke in a
calm relaxing tone. She rattled off the information that would empower us to
insist on safer sex for ourselves and to spread the word to the community.
Latex was the main deal. She blithely introduced us to dental dams, finger
cots, and latex gloves. We all learned how to put a latex condom on a sex toy
with our mouths. We were asked to write a short erotic story that incorporat-
ed latex. The evening ended with us going around the circle and reading our
stories, which all included some rendition of “her swollen, hungry lips pulsated
against the glistening latex dam.” A hot and juicy time was had by all. The sex-
pert reminded us that anything can be eroticized and bid us good night.
T
hat workshop had a lasting effect on me in ways I couldn’t have
expected. To this day I get instinctual nipple erections at the mere
thought of a mint Milano. But it never occurred to me that I would so
integrate the sexpert’s words into my psyche that I would get turned on dur-
ing a root canal.
Yet it was happening — everything took on an erotic association. The
endodontist positioned a latex square over my molar. I squirmed in the reclin-
ing chair to accommodate my engorgement. This miscommunicated to the
good doctor a call for more Novocain. The puddle under me grew. I was anes-
thetized, aroused, open for whatever these two latex-clad professionals would
do to me. If I had been able to utter more than a cotton-muffled grunt, I’d
have suggested they reposition the saliva siphon a couple of feet lower.
I barely remember the drilling. I left the office of oral surgery numb-
faced, giddy and not just a little weak in the knees. That experience changed
my life. Now squeaky shoes get me hot. I’m helpless around polyester print
smocks. Chain-clasp paper bibs melt me. As a matter of fact, I have been feel-
ing a familiar throbbing ache. I get all gooey just thinking about it. I need
another root canal.
Writer Sally Sheklow teaches essay and magazine writing at LCC downtown. New classes begin Jan. 6. Enroll at
www.lanecc.edu
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